The museo Galileo

She had begun to have the impression as she approached the museo that it was a prison. At first it was just that the boxy palazzo resembled one, but as the weeks wore on her time there came to feel like deathly servitude, hours, days shut away from life, emptied of everything but meaningless time-killing make-work—answering email from the assistant directress, who sat at a table not more than two meters from her own; small meetings with people from other museo offices for the coordination of everyone’s time-killing make-work; and worst of all, the great emptiness at the center of it all, the planning of the Galileo anniversary for a small tribe of wealthy patrons and museo leadership in order to reproduce an institution that contributed almost nothing to the public understanding of its eponymous hero.

The Italian Novel


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